


Away in Dead of Night

by Lassarina



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Post-Canon, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:22:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23959882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lassarina/pseuds/Lassarina
Summary: In the aftermath, Kirkwall is too dangerous for a Mage Champion.  She flees, in the company of a dear and reliable friend, Fenris.  She'd really quite like for him to be more than a friend, but they have bigger problems - like the dangers lurking in the ruins where they only meant to shelter for the night.
Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31
Collections: Id Pro Quo 2020





	Away in Dead of Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sumi/gifts).



The thing about a mage's staff was that it was impossible to make it look like anything but a mage's staff. Wrapping the thing only made it look like a wrapped staff. Hawke sighed and pulled the cloth off the staff again. The problem wasn't leaving Kirkwall, not really. There was no one in the city who didn't know who she was. The problem was whatever happened after.

And that wasn't something she was going to solve with a few twists of linen around a glowing mass of wood and stone.

She looked around the room one more time. One could accumulate a lot of things living in a mansion for years, and yet, so little of it was what she'd deem necessary to take with her. Bodahn would take good care of it while she was gone, and Carver would always have somewhere to go if he needed it. That was what was important. She picked up the bag with some extra clothing, money, and the necessities of a life on the road, and walked to the bedroom door, refusing to look back.

She was really, _really_ going to miss all the books.

Bodahn was waiting at the front door with a bag of foodstuffs. "Safe journey," he said, his hands folded before him.

"I'll write," Hawke promised. Most people probably didn't write to their household staff. Hawke wasn't most people, and Bodahn wasn't most staff, and this wasn't the usual kind of situation. Nothing was usual. She was the Champion of Kirkwall, and she was sneaking out of her house in the middle of the night--all right, an hour past sundown--to leave the city in secret, because the city was metaphorically and probably also literally on fire.

There wasn't much more to say. Hawke took the bag, and left the house. Hightown was quieter than it should be at this time of night; usually, people would be going to parties, or finding their way to the Rose, or brave young scions who ought to know better would be risking their purses and their precious necks slumming it in Lowtown. With the long-brewing war between Templars and Mages out in the open now, Kirkwall trembled on the edge of battle constantly. No one wanted to be in the middle when spells and swords were slung.

It made Hawke more noticeable for actually being on the street, but then again, no one tried to stop her. Servants would see her mage staff and decide they'd rather keep their heads down, and Kirkwall's noble class would decide discretion was a better decision than tangling with the Champion, and either way, they stayed out of her way between the Amell estate--still not hers, not really, and not anymore after this--and the mansion Fenris had claimed after they killed Danarius.

He was waiting for her, leaning in the shadows of his front door, a light pack nearby and his sword propped against the door. Lyrium glimmered in the moonlight under the hood of his cloak. As always, she wanted to run her hands over that warm brown skin, but she kept her hands to herself. She might want, but she valued his friendship too much to touch without asking, and she knew what he would say to the magic in her hands. She was grateful enough he was leaving with her.

"Ready?" she asked him.

"There's nothing here for me," he said. In the moonlight, his eyes were dark as a Ferelden forest. "Hawke, you don't have to come with me."

"I do," she said, thinking of the note Carver had slipped her in the market. "Kirkwall isn't safe for me anymore. It never was." Merrill was gone already, thankfully, and Aveline and Varric would be all right; Isabela was already free on the seas she so missed, and Sebastian had gone back to Starkhaven. She didn't think about Anders. It was too complicated. The list of goodbyes hurt. She found her hand clenched into a fist, made herself open it. "I'm ready."

"No, you're not," he murmured, but he picked up his gear and stepped in front of her, as he always had when they left the city together. She took comfort from the familiarity of him leading the way, even if very little would threaten them inside Kirkwall, not yet.

The city guard was there to keep people out of the city at night, not in, and in any event, it was Donnic on watch tonight. He nodded soberly as they walked past. Hawke had already said her goodbyes, so she said nothing, just nodded back and pretended her eyes didn't sting with tears. The road to the Wounded Coast was familiar under her feet, so much that the thin light of the crescent moon was enough to keep her from injury. How many times had they walked this road? How many times had she listened to Merrill pester Varric, or Isabela tease Fenris? She'd always envied the pirate that easy camaraderie.

The Coast was less dangerous than it used to be, thanks to their regular ventures, but that didn't mean it was safe. Things they would have easily handled with a group of four would be a threat to just two. Fenris paused, his head cocked, and Hawke stopped instantly, her hands tight on her staff. She scarcely dared to breathe, as though air in her lungs or lack thereof would make any difference to a wolf or a darkspawn.

"The cave in the ruins," he said at last, and she knew which one he meant.

"Shelter for the night?" she asked, trying to pitch her voice to carry no farther than his ears.

"It'll be easier," he said. "Safer."

"Then let's."

She knew the path, and stuck close to him as they followed the twists and turns along the Wounded Coast. They'd cleared that cave of all kinds of things over the years, from spiders to rogue Templars and Mages. It didn't have the best memories, but it was a good shelter. The Coast was quiet, except for the normal nocturnal animals. Still, she kept her staff gripped close, ready to throw a Barrier spell at the first sign of trouble.

They reached the ruins, and something about it gave Hawke pause. She reached out, her fingertips brushing Fenris's shoulder, and he spun back to her so fast she almost flinched back. "What is it?" he asked brusquely.

"Something isn't right," she whispered.

He tilted his head.

"Listen."

The wind moaned eerily through the fallen rocks. The few stubborn plants clinging to the edges of the cliff rustled. No owls hooted. No other animals made a sound. The wavering light of the moon cast long shadows that could hide plenty. Fenris's head lowered beneath his cloak, and he drew a deep breath. She braced, centering herself and reaching for the connection to the Fade that drove her magic. She didn't know what was here, only that something was.

Maker grant it wasn't a dragon.

Fenris drew his sword in near-silence, a trick Carver had never mastered (nor, she thought, had he ever felt the need) and held it angled across his body, a defensive stance. Casting anything on him would flare mage-light around them and make their position very clear, so she didn't--yet--but she was braced for it. She would not risk Fenris's safety, not when he'd brought her with him.

Something creaked--leather. Like Varric's armor. Her head snapped to the left, and she saw the outline of a bow in the moonlight. Fenris was already moving, blurred around the edges as lyrium flared beneath his cloak. The archer noticed and turned, but too late; he died, nearly silent, to Fenris's clawed hand. She scanned the narrow ravine that led to the ruins instead. No one posted only a single sentry. Fenris crept through the night, searching likewise. Hawke stayed near him, both so they wouldn't mistake each other for enemies and because it meant she could watch his back, guard him as he guarded her. She saw his gesture and drew closer, nodding to show she understood when he pointed to the cliff rim. Another archer watched them, arrow nocked and drawn. He was too high up for Fenris to strike--but not for her magic.

She drew her magic into her, breathed deep, and focused it with all the fierce concentration she could muster--but without emotion. Emotion was how demons found the cracks in your spirit, how they coaxed you to let them through you from the Fade to your life. Emotion was what made blood mages. Emotion in magic was death. No emotion, then, only someone else's death, a knife's edge she tried not to think about when magic poured through her.

The archer died.

No hue and cry was raised, so there must have only been two sentries outside the ruins. She turned to Fenris. "How many do you think will be inside?" she asked, turned so the wind carried her voice away from the caves.

His face was grim in the shadows. "If they could spare two sentries at night? Perhaps a dozen."

Hawke turned silently to search the first sentry. He was well-dressed, dyed wool and sturdy leather, and his coin purse was plump. She froze when she opened it and saw the stamp on the sovereigns. She checked the bow next, thinking of conversations with Sebastian, pestering him for information about his favored weapon. Beneath slack dead fingers in leather gloves were words inscribed in a tongue her father had taught her to read.

There weren't many reasons for Tevinter men to be on the Wounded Coast. There were even fewer that were good.

She heard the whisper of cloth and leather and turned, knowing she'd find Fenris there. He looked at the coins in her hand. "Tevinter," he said, and it was the same disgust with which he spoke the name of the man who'd burned lyrium into his flesh.

"I don't think they're here to support Fereldan refugees," she said, and the corner of his mouth twitched. His amusement was a hard-won victory, and she savored it.

"I know exactly what they're here for," he said, his lip curling. "Slaves."

Their eyes met, and the understanding needed no words. Fenris turned toward the cave, and Hawke laid the bright light of a Barrier spell around him. They had not come this far to fall to Tevinter slavers. She would not allow it.

One cave on the Wounded Coast was much like another, and light and sound bent through all of them until it was easy to get hopelessly lost, but Fenris moved with easy confidence, silently hunting. No more sentries barred their path, though there were a few traps, laid in bare patches where the path widened. Fenris kept to the edges, and Hawke followed in his wake, avoiding the steel jaws of the traps--habits learned from Varric, who had favored these as tactical options when they drew enemies toward their group. Hawke was really going to miss his easy good humor. She was going to miss his ribald stories.

She reminded herself she wasn't going to live to miss any of those things if she didn't pay attention.

Ahead, the embers of a fire glowed. Men spoke in low voices; she picked out the occasional word. As they drew nearer, she saw that three slept rolled up in blankets, while five sat around the fire, talking. Her mouth pulled flat. There were too many. She steadied her grip on the staff and waited for Fenris's signal.

It came, and with it, chaos.

The healing aura flashed into place around her and she flung a Crushing Prison at the men around the fire, dazing them. Fenris whirled through the sleepers in a flare of lyrium and steel, slaying them before they had a chance to wake and reach for their weapons. Hawke felt time stretch into that sticky taffy pace of battle, where everything went slow and sharp and clear, and she counted the bodies as they fell. Three in blankets, three at the fire, one engaged with Fenris--

\--one missing.

She realized it too late, turned, and saw him coming at her, his sword raised. She flung a Mind Blast at him, backed away, toward Fenris--toward safety. She heard his sword clash with the slaver's, saw the one coming at her stagger, and tripped on the outflung hand of one of the formerly sleeping men. Her other foot came down turned, and the pace of battle stretched and snapped as she fell, as the sword rose.

"Hawke!" Fenris shouted.

She shaped a spell, only to lose it when the ground slammed into her, knocking the air from her lungs. The slaver's sword came down.

So this is how the Champion meets her end, she thought.

Lyrium flashed in front of her, Fenris's body twisting over hers at a terrible angle, his sword meeting the other with a jarring clang, barely knocking the other aside, and she saw and felt the impact when he took the blow meant for her, saw the gaping wound it opened in his side. He grunted, and turned as he fell so that his weight did not come on her, his left hand already reaching, lyrium-bright, savage as he tore through the slaver's body.

The eighth man fell, and Fenris with him.

"Fenris!" Hawke rolled to the side and onto her knees, reaching for him. Terror knocked the sense clean out of her, made her forget every syllable of magic she knew, as she pushed aside his clothes to check the wound. It was deep, but clean.

"Are you hurt?" Fenris asked.

"What?" She stared. "Of course I'm not hurt. You got hurt protecting me!"

"Good." His head fell back.

"That is not good!" She caught herself, and stopped. She was a mage with healing spells. This was a fixable problem. First she looked around to be sure there were no more slavers, since she didn't need any more spells being interrupted. Then she looked down at the wound gaping between bright silvery lines, and shaped Heal. Light flared between her hands, melted into the lyrium and flesh, and knit it back together. Fenris grunted, and she made herself not flinch. Healing wasn't easy on the caster or the recipient; it itched like fire as months of healing burned through flesh in moments, and left every muscle aching and twinging. She kept her mind calm, like a lake, like the first fall of snow, like the surface of a mirror. Nothing here for a spirit to find. No gaps. No holes.

Fenris let out a long breath. So did she.

"Where else?" she asked, and kept her voice level.

"That's the only one," he said.

She waited, listening to the aura that surrounded her and lay over him, but he told the truth. She sat back on her heels, her knee still touching his side, warmth and connection. Friendship, she told herself firmly.

"What were you doing?" Her voice cracked.

"Protecting you." He leaned up on his elbows, then sat up, wincing a little. It would take another few hours before his brain stopped telling him his body was injured as he moved.

"You could have died." She missed that point of connection between them, but balled her hands into fists atop her thighs instead of touching him again.

He was quiet, implacable. "There's a reason you don't stand on the front line of battle, Hawke. And I let him get away."

"That doesn't mean you fling yourself between me and his sword."

"You would have died if I hadn't."

"I don't want you to die for me!" The words burst out of her and there was no taking them back. His eyes widened in surprise, his mouth softening.

The hell with friendship. Hawke leaned forward and kissed him.

It wasn't the soft kiss of girlish dreams; he tasted of coppery blood, sweat, and battle, and after the first flinch of surprise his hands sank roughly into her hair, dragging her half across his lap. She felt the bright spark of lyrium as she wrapped her arms around him and decided she'd worry about consequences later.

Far too soon, he leaned back. "Hawke," he said.

She cleared her throat. "Fenris." There. They'd established they knew each other's names. No concussions here.

He tilted his head forward and rested his forehead against hers. "I think we need to talk about this, but not here," he said.

Ah. Right. Not in the midst of the corpse pile they'd created. That would put a damper on the mood.

She got to her feet and he followed, and they moved deeper into the ruins. The group of slavers they'd already killed seemed to be the only ones, and they found an empty room deeper in where they could rest. Fenris set the lantern he'd taken from the slavers into a niche on the wall and stacked kindling for a fire. Hawke set down her pack and sighed as she examined her formerly clean robe. It was a real toss-up what she was going to miss most about Kirkwall: her library, or Bodahn's uncanny ability to get bloodstains out of her clothes. She rubbed at it, to no avail.

She couldn't put this off forever. She looked up to see Fenris watching her as the fire flickered to life.

"Did you mean that?" He fidgeted with the edge of his tunic.

"That I don't want you to die for me?" She could willfully misinterpret with the best of them, as the late Knight Commander would have attested with great enthusiasm.

"Hawke." Why was it that every single one of their merry band had that particular exasperated note when speaking her name? It really wasn't fair. She wasn't that bad.

"Yes, I meant it." She pulled her shoulders back, her chin up. If she was going to ruin everything she might as well do it like she did everything else: headfirst at full tilt. "Listen, I realize I'm a mage and that might as well be poison, but you're more than a friend to me, and I've tried to make that go away but it doesn't, so--yes. Yes, I did mean it, and if that revokes my passage to wherever we were going, just--don't _literally_ tear my heart out, okay? Figuratively's good enough." She couldn't quite get the sassy smile to come out right. It kept slipping.

She couldn't see his face well in the flickering light, and wasn't sure she wanted to, but she could see that he was moving closer to her. She braced herself, chin up to meet his gaze directly. His hands against her cheeks were gentle. She really liked the color of his eyes. She could stare into them for much longer than she ever should have, as Varric had warned her on more than one occasion with a discreet kick beneath the table at Wicked Grace. Those eyes were drawing closer, and so was his mouth--

Oh.

This kiss was lighter than their first one, more cautious--and that was kind of backwards, wasn't it, but since when were they anything like they should be--was there a they? She hoped so. And she stopped thinking about that, and thought about his lips on hers, the calluses on his fingers against her cheek, the scent of him that was leather and steel and blood and _Fenris,_ and oh, yes, she very much meant this kiss.

She lifted her hands to frame his face, slid her fingers into his hair, and kissed him back with all the meaning she could muster.


End file.
